Mom was out on a date. Combined with a boyfriend-less winter evening and all your friends on vacation, it meant it would be a lone night of Netflix for you. At some point, you found yourself watching the closing credits despite only remembering the previous episode’s recap leading into the opening theme. What a bore. You sighed, not bothering to sit up on the living room couch as you pulled your top up to your midriff, undid the drawstring of your pajama bottoms and snaked your fingers down your abdomen, under your panties and-

There was the jangling of keys. In a flash, you were upright as the front door swung open on creaky hinges. A woman in her early-forties stumbled inside on long, unsteady legs, half-supporting herself with an arm wrapped around the neck of a man in between both your ages, who looked like he’d left the Marines less than three years ago. The top two buttons of her white blouse were undone, allowing anybody and everybody to see the top of her creamy opulent breasts. A red mark on the side of her neck, looking like it’d been freshly branded, glared angrily in the dimly lit room as she kicked off her black fuck-me pumps.

“Sorry, I would’ve gotten a hotel but-” Your mom stammered, her cheeks flushed by either alcohol or her company. And judging by how she stoically pounded vodka cranberries after Dad left, there could only be one answer which was-

“-Allison complained about how she can’t get a good night’s rest on their beds.” I interjected smoothly, glancing at you with the smallest of smiles. A pair of predatory eyes flickered toward the undone drawstring and top pulled up just beneath your breasts. Despite one arm tattooed from wrist to forearm wrapped around your mother’s back, hand groping her right breast through the delicate snowy fabric, my brown irises traced your figure down from head to toe, not even caring that I was practically playing with your mother’s nipple as I did so. But instead of slapping my head away, she only breathed in sharply as I tweaked the bud slightly.

And once my eyes met yours, my smile grew just a little bit wider.

“Hold your mother up.” I said. You hurriedly got off the couch, pulling your top back down to waist level. As you helped support her, you watched as I leisurely undid the laces of my black suede shoes, then hung a light brown blazer on the nearest coat rack. You swallowed audibly as I approached you, allowing you to catch a wiff of a cologne that smelled like a rainstorm’s aftermath.

Afterwards, your mother let out a noise in between a squeal and a giggle as I swept her off her inebriated feet, carrying her effortlessly toward the master bedroom as if she were a delicate princess, even though you knew that once inside, I was going to treat her exactly the opposite.

It wouldn’t have mattered if Allison got that hotel, because she never got that good night’s sleep anyway. She screams as the bed’s headboard bangs against the wall as you lay curled in your own bed, thighs pressed tightly together, head buried underneath your pillow but you couldn’t, just couldn’t drown out the noise. All of it: the sound of hip connecting with hip, palm punishing a plump cheek, the moans of pure ecstasy and all the expletives accompanying them. Knuckle-deep into your own cunt, teeth clamped over your plaid comforter, you learned you’d inherited something that couldn’t be passed through genes that you wouldn’t have if your mother hadn’t met me:

Screaming runs in the family.

I spent more nights in your mother’s bed than I did in my own for the next three weeks. She develops a sore throat, not just from the sloppy head she gives me whenever I spend the night, but also from all the screaming, pleading, moaning and whimpering. Some nights you’ll peek through the crack of the master bedroom’s door, watch me lay into her like a beast in heat, slap her tits like drums. When I’m finished coating her cunt, breasts, face and stomach with my sticky batter, I’ll slide off the bed, the springs in her mattress letting out a relieved ‘thank-you’ as her toe-curled legs remain in the air, twitching slightly as I slap her ass appreciatively.

You’ll vanish from your spot and hide in your room, watching from the smallest of gaps as I lumber down the hallway toward the bathroom, looking like a proud UFC fighter who’d just pounded his opponent into submission. I’ll brush several droplets of sweat off my lightly haired chest, using the hand where your mother’s thong was wrapped around my wrist like some perverted trophy I’d seized from her. Some nights you’ll tiptoe out of your cold bedroom, breathe in a mouthful of that air dripping with sex, heat and brutal passion before disappearing back underneath your covers.

In the mornings, your mother will stumble out wordlessly in a silk robe and matted hair, barely acknowledging you with a slurred ‘morning’ as she limps her way over to the kitchen for a glass of water before returning to bed. More than once does she call in sick to recover from a particularly brutal session. In contrast, I’ll whistle on my way to the bathroom, the outline of the WMD hanging from my hips faintly visible even from a distance. Sometimes you’ll peek on me trimming the stubble on my chin, even take hold of my shaft thicker than your wrist and piss out a pint until I’m all out. Even when I shower, lathering my body with your own soap and combing your shampoo through my sandy brown hair, one eye will remain on the hand swapping across my fit body while the other ensures that your mother doesn’t walk out unexpectedly, though it’s never happened yet.

You don’t think I know, despite it being so very obvious. But trust me, I do.

Two weeks later I was gone. Mom claimed it was because she didn’t see a future with him, that she didn’t really like him that much and that he was too clingy, that he overstayed his welcome too often. But you knew the truth. Hell, you heard the truth when she furiously fucked herself at night with a now too small dildo when she thought you were sleeping. And one morning as you were cleaning the house, you opened the hallway closet door and saw it.

A light brown blazer.

You stared at it. You should just leave it. Take it out to the dumpster. Shred it. Burn it.

You took it. And hid it in your own room. You went through the pockets, finding a pack of gum, a couple of twenties and mostly importantly of all, a business card. You brought out something from your own pocket: a cell phone.

Hi, it’s Allison’s daughter. You left your jacket behind and I wasn’t sure, but I figured you’d like it back? Maybe we could meet up sometime and I could give it to you?

You read the message, reread it a dozen times, hoping it didn’t sound as needy as you actually were. Licking your lips nervously, with a heart beating harder than a racehorse, you pressed “Send”. An eternity elapsed as you stood there, staring at your phone unblinkingly. A minute. Two minutes. Ten minutes. After fifteen, you were forced to come to the conclusion. He wasn’t interested. Why wasn’t he? Frustrated, you jammed your phone into your pocket and continued about your day.

3 hours later, you were at the local Starbucks getting a latte, when you felt a buzzing on your thigh. You pulled it out, expecting a photo from your friends in some foreign country or a text from mom, only to read-

6142 Eclipse Street. 8.

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